Archive for the ‘Angst’ Category
Tuesday, November 20th, 2012
Day One — Friday
A spike-head buck came down from Widow’s Knob behind me and took off back into the woods when I turned to get a look. I should have been more patient. Later, a doe came across Safariland from Robin Lick in my direction, and it seemed to be staring directly at me. When it turned slightly, I put the cross-hairs on and fired. She promptly pranced right back down into the thicket by the creek. Did I miss? After a 90-minute search with no blood sighted, I concluded that I had indeed. When I got back to the barnyard I decided to test fire my rifle in the silo field. From about a hundred yards, I didn’t hit the target area at all using the scope, but came within 2 inches of my bulls-eye with iron sights. That explains it. Lesson learned: don’t assume the scope is still zeroed in from the previous season. That evening I found a great spot near the borderline wash on the Brush Creek side of the tree tunnel. The only deer I saw came crashing down the gully at a full run, chased by three dogs. My luck was still cold.
Day Two — Saturday
Back at the wash, I saw one deer of decent size at Bottle Neck, but it was crossing fast enough to prevent a clean shot. That was it for the morning. That evening I was skunked back at Safariland. Tony came driving through with his ATV trailer about dusk, turned around, and left, waving to me. I didn’t wave back. Hey, if you are not going to hunt, then stay out of the Valley when others are waiting to spot a deer. I think he just drives around and drinks if he isn’t hunting.
Day Three — Sunday
I did not see a deer the entire day, and it feels like I have no more good joss in this valley. I set up at daybreak beyond Blue Bank, at the entrance to the long hay field, because Susan told me that multiple deer had been sighted along their lane, even at mid-day. Later in the morning, I worked the area near the collapsed tobacco barn, and went back out after noon for an hour or so, but no luck. It was back to the wash before sundown, the last place I had made a sighting. There is a certain sound of a deer moving through the woodland bed of dry leaves that gets my heart beating faster. It’s different than the sound of a squirrel, which is a series of abrupt rustles, rather than a more continuous brushing, punctuated with tree-branch cracks. That doesn’t mean a squirrel sound won’t occasionally bump the adrenaline; it’s an unconscious response. At one point, a squirrel ran down a fallen tree and nearly ended up at arm’s reach before it saw me. And then it began barking and hissing at me like I’ve never heard before. Well, at least I knew I had reasonably good concealment, but that was it for the session. Darkness was gaining on me, and I doubted a deer would now proceed into such a noisy scolding zone.
Day Four — Monday
At first light I headed back to the location I had mishandled on Friday, since it had offered the most action of the hunt so far. I discovered another good spot to view the expanse of Safariland, but there was no sign of deer all morning. I decided to climb up to the flat of Widow’s Knob. I got to see one deer when I startled it from its resting place, but, as usual, I don’t get a shot opportunity when that happens. I guess I just wanted to see if one was up there again, near where Marty and I once camped, like there was last month, when I was carrying my muzzle-loader. Finished the four-day hunt back at the Realm of Greystone, and was sad to lose the light without a sighting. Well, I’m a “next-time guy.” See you in December.
Posted in Angst, Hunting | No Comments »
Sunday, March 11th, 2012
“I could see no reason why used tram tickets, bits of driftwood, buttons, and old junk from attics and rubbish heaps should not serve well as materials for paintings; they suited the purpose just as well as factory-made paints.”
—Kurt Schwitters
The matrix is abandoned. Is it March or not? Dana and I traveled to Louisville to see a group collage exhibition at Hard Scuffle Gallery. One of the most satisfying opening receptions I have ever attended. Caitlan and Kyle walked over to join us, and we presented our congratulations gift to him—the unusual ceramic cast by Igor. Bob and Meg attended and wanted to have dinner with us. My intention was to make it back to the farm for Mission: Madness, but the schedule went to pieces. I really hated to stand up my Pal-zee. It was a joy to re-connect with these friends. We are all at the age when it becomes a challenge to maintain the continuity of our self-employment and stability, but each of us does our part to navigate the waters with purpose and a semblance of dignity. Schwitters was the great example of always moving on to the next thing in the face of adversity, yet preserving a dedication to his unifying artistic vision. Would he disdain my current fixation on his “style?” Most likely. But an artist must absorb all one can from influences, modify one’s own creative code in the process, and venture on toward greater individuality. Bert Cooper said, “Get on with it!”
To Pay Paul
Posted in Angst, Art, Caitlan, Dana, Friends, Joan, Personalities, Television | Comments Closed
Friday, March 9th, 2012
“I think I grew in different ways—just that it didn’t break me, I didn’t really just quit. There were moments when I was definitely close.”
—Taylor Kitsch
Dana told me, “Just remember, these are your friends, and they want you to do well.” With that helpful suggestion, I finalized my PowerPoint presentation and headed out to address the club that I’d quit nearly three years ago. It’s funny how nagging insecurities and self-doubt can get in the way of achieving a straightforward goal. I decided to do this. I knew I was fully knowledgeable and capable of pulling it off. And yet, somehow, the lead-up was all about overcoming the fear of failure. The ability to perform is in my bones, I guess, but speaking in public has never come easy for me. I thought to myself, whatever you’re dealing with, there is nobody more on pins and needles today than young Taylor Kitsch. So I picked up the microphone, smiled, said, “Thank you, Danville Rotary!” and shared my passion for bicycling. John Carter ordered, “Get on!”
A Cult of One
Posted in Angst, Community, Dana, Exercise, Movies, Personalities, Psychology, Public Service | Comments Closed
Friday, March 2nd, 2012
“Then the gates of hell opened up.”
—an unidentified Indiana dispatcher
“It was beautiful. And now it’s just gone. I mean, gone.”
—Andy Bell, Henryville
A huge battery of storm cells on a forced march across the Midwest left decimation and loss of life behind it in Kentucky. I felt uneasy leaving home to play cards with friends, especially after an exhausting push to complete another presentation for the music CD graphics. Archibald Whitman scoffed, “Look at your hands.”
Maelstrom
Posted in Angst, Friends, Nature, Studio, Television | Comments Closed
Monday, March 14th, 2011
March Exercise —day fourteen— Needless to say, there’s been a hazy layer of melancholy over my year, but nothing about it can compare to what so many souls across Japan have been forced to endure since last week. With no cable news feed, I can’t say I’ve spent any time with live coverage. Nevertheless, I’ve watched enough video to feel sick over the heartbreaking developments, and no self-respecting crashologist can fail to recognize how abruptly this type of disaster could befall any of us. We are more accustomed to appraising the aftermath of nature’s fury in less-advanced, relatively unsophisticated places. There’s something about seeing this devastation visited upon such a meticulous, aesthetically refined culture that rips deeper into my sense of well-being. When we were little, we would block up the creek or the pond overflow, build little villages out of sticks in the channel, and then release the water to see the miniature dwellings swept away. The boyhood pleasure we would derive from such activities comes back to haunt me now. Is some unseen cosmic juvenile at play with our little wet rock, or must we accept that each of us is merely a scintilla of this devilish lad—one of the billions of tiny cells that make up this singularly inept planetary steward?
Today’s sight bite— The swirling, gargantuan black mass oozing over everything in its path —c-l-i-c-k— as terrified observers cry helplessly, yet continue to point their video cameras at the unthinkable.
Tomorrow— The annual regime is nearly half over . . .
Posted in Angst, Awe, Crashology, Environment, Playtime, Television | Comments Closed
Thursday, March 10th, 2011
March Exercise —day ten— Another day of rain, but my mind is drifting back almost a year to when we replaced our roof here at the Town House, or, I should say, after we replaced it. I arose from a fretful sleep and could see out the bathroom window that it was raining. A familiar distress clutched at my gut, and I prepared myself to climb up into the attic to check on my array of buckets and plastic sheets. And then, for the first time in years, I reacted to the knowledge that it was just a bit of welcome rain, that there were no more roof leaks to magnify the stress that had accompanied any amount of precipitation. Everything was fine. I could go back to sleep without worry. Through most of my life I have enjoyed the rain—being out in it, just hearing and smelling it. What a comfort to think it could be like that again!
Today’s sight bite— Sidewalk puddles energized with a steady drizzle —c-l-i-c-k— is enough to convince me that my walk to campus can wait until tomorrow.
Tomorrow— Our date postponed . . .
Posted in Angst, Home, Nature | Comments Closed
Thursday, March 3rd, 2011
March Exercise —day three— Morning flew away and my scheduled swim was on top of me before I knew it. College staffers were creating a stone perimeter in front of the pool building for what looked to become a flower bed around the sign. Seeing the men at work out of doors with gardening tools sent a low jolt of some unknown stimulant through my system that triggered preposterous musings about what might have been, had I chucked my day job years ago and become a landscaper. It brought to mind the words of my cousin Dan, when he informed me by email that he’d acquired rural acreage in Ohio: “I think the urges I’m having now were evident in your father when I was a kid, and my father and brother now. I don’t know why I so desperately want to have land that I control, and to provide food to my family and neighbors….but I do.” There is something profoundly misguided about my having had decades of access to one of the most tranquil of Kentucky’s natural havens and, so far, having squandered the opportunity to fulfill that same genetic compulsion. God help me.
Today’s sight bite— Hand-worn rakes sifting through clods of black soil —c-l-i-c-k— as landscapers prepare a new planter at the natatorium.
Tomorrow— An evening with compassionate friends . . .
Posted in Angst, Environment, Family, Food, Gardening, Nature, Prayer | Comments Closed
Monday, December 27th, 2010
I need to do another entry about VT, now that my direct work with a therapist is over. I should have kept up a more regular account, since now it will be more difficult to reconstruct a coherent record of the experience. I was thinking about how, after a rough session, I had what seemed to be a moment of broad clarity. For me, these occurrences consist of distinct interconnections and apparent cause/effect relationships with respect to aspects of life not previously associated in my thinking. Sometimes these connections fade to the point where the entire insight can be called into question, and I’m left with a vague sense that my inner mental acuity is as unreliable as my memory. This time it was an electric thought that perhaps my vision dysfunction was directly related to a latent but powerful level of stress that has derived from my creativity having been held up to the continual scrutiny and subjective evaluation of others. “Well, of course,” one might say. How can one become a mature creative person, much less a professional resource, if one doesn’t learn to cope with either the legitimate opinions or capricious expectations of others? And so it becomes a matter of attitude or inner posture. If the inherent tension is not successfully mitigated at an unconscious level, it’s quite possible that there will be corrosive influences and negative consequences in the organism. I was left with a brief, troubling notion that “most of my creative life has been wasted,” because I hadn’t nourished a stance optimally detached from any sanction or disapproval from others. Has the failure to properly offset personal fulfillment with the satisfaction of others created a fundamental contradiction at the heart of what I do that induces and maintains deep internal stress? Am I the kind of individual with such a basic urge to follow my artistic impulse that a life of constraint based on the anticipation of external judgment has resulted in some form of rebellion by my body, mind, or spirit? And, if so, what in heaven’s name can be done about it now?
Posted in Angst, Art, Creativity, Psychology, Vision | Comments Closed
Friday, March 26th, 2010
March Exercise V —day twenty-six— While spending hours alone in the studio, there’s probably nothing better than the framework of a March discipline to put things into perspective, because the backdrop of inexorable dependencies are certain to impinge upon the solitude of the day, and, eventually, they do. One can’t help but imagine another type of life, but that’s a pointless distraction. This is my ship, and, with the Creator’s guidance, I shall sail her as best I can.
Today’s sight bite— Globules of amber, blue-violet, and magenta —c-l-i-c-k— as late sunlight projects a pattern of Time Zippy against the rotunda’s white interior.
Previously on M-Ex— Uncle Joe’s final ordeal is at hand. (3/26/06)
Tomorrow— A spring weekend begins!
Posted in Angst, Family, Psychology, Studio | Comments Closed
Thursday, March 25th, 2010
March Exercise V —day twenty-five— I continued to have difficulty with my “phantom thumb” exercise, so I called Mary Ellen to consult. She told me to just set it aside for now and not to fret about it. I suddenly realized how many other things I’d allowed myself to make an object of daily worry, pondering the connection between stress and vision problems. It seemed a good time to walk over to the Community Art Center with Dana and tour the dinosaur exhibit. We saw Nathan M and he offered to provide us the list of economic development conferees. Later, I sipped a cold Leinenkugel and watched the Wildcats secure their spot in the “elite 8.”
Today’s sight bite— Phosphorescent streaks and random geometric perfections —c-l-i-c-k— convincing me that exotic minerals are more fascinating to my current imagination than extinct reptiles.
Previously on M-Ex— It’s a madhouse! (3/25/07)
Tomorrow— Flying solo in the studio . . .
Posted in Angst, Business, Dana, Nature, Sport, Television, Vision | Comments Closed
Wednesday, March 24th, 2010
March Exercise V —day twenty-four— I was burnt toast after my 22-miler tonight, making me painfully conscious of my sedentary occupation. But it’s March, when my bicycle legs are rudely punished until I can take 30 miles in stride, with a couple of knobs thrown in for good measure.
Today’s sight bite— Was that the familiar green and brown bag? —c-l-i-c-k— In the ditch? There’s another one! —c-l-i-c-k— My package design for livestock feed appearing as a huge item of roadside litter reminds me that I have chosen to spend much of my life creating trivial ephemera.
Previously on M-Ex— Conservation of energy—more secrets are revealed through focused awareness. (3/24/06)
Tomorrow— Dinosaurs!
Posted in Angst, Business, Environment, Exercise, Trivia | Comments Closed
Monday, March 22nd, 2010
March Exercise V —day twenty-two— After my tenth round of vision therapy, the balance of the day felt like a refutation of the popular fallacy called “multitasking.” I had little tolerance for more than one activity, train of thought, or sensory stimulus at a time. I accept that one is responsible for one’s own serenity, but there are times when I think that peace and quiet are the scarcest commodities. Tonight is one of those times, after having found a kindred spirit in the author of this remarkable blog. Two years ago she posted a picture of a Minnesota scene identical to the one I viewed from the Bluegrass Parkway this morning.
Today’s sight bite— Twin silos against an amber-pink burst of luminosity —c-l-i-c-k— as day breaks over a landscape carved by the Kentucky River.
Previously on M-Ex— March is for going a little bit “kook.” (3/22/07)
Tomorrow— Executing fleet graphics for a client…
Posted in Angst, Blogging, Nature | Comments Closed
Friday, March 19th, 2010
March Exercise V —day nineteen— We finally “pulled the trigger” and hired a roofer, ending years of distress that stemmed from our inability to afford the kind of roof we truly wanted. Someday, perhaps, this bungalow will once again wear a clay tile roof, as it did in the 1920s, but, sadly, we won’t be the ones to provide it. We can’t even swing the metal simulation, so we’ll do the best thing we can— restore the original terracotta color with a premium asphalt shingle. We’re tired of the indecision and just can’t attempt another rainy season with buckets throughout the attic. It’s time to press on.
Today’s sight bite— Low shafts of morning light —c-l-i-c-k— as they wrap around the ancient maple’s gnarled bark.
Previously on M-Ex— Our favorite hoops-gril finishes her high school career. (3/19/09)
Tomorrow— Our first visit to the Kentucky Artisan Center…
Posted in Angst, Home, Priorities | Comments Closed
Friday, March 12th, 2010
The inertia is gone. Something is trying to bring me down. All I wanted was a warm, quiet day, but ended up outside, dealing with two different crews that stopped by to discuss a roofing estimate. And now I’m wilting fast and battling thoughts of defeat…
Posted in Angst | Comments Closed
Monday, March 1st, 2010
March Exercise V —day one— After a fantastic weekend packed with friendship, today began with a mood of glum dissatisfaction because the initial cadence of my regimen left something to be desired. By afternoon my attitude had shifted, and I found myself in a mode more characteristic of my best 5k-run experiences: start out with a comfortable pace and successfully pick up speed. In the running world it’s called negative splits. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?
Today’s sight bite— Concentric rings of vivid vessels suspended overhead —c-l-i-c-k— with each globe of pure color reflecting the terrazzo compass at my feet.
Previously on M-Ex— With a few finishing touches, “Spellbound By Brass” is complete. (3/1/07)
Tomorrow— Seventh vision therapy session…
Posted in Angst, Art, Exercise, Psychology | Comments Closed
Wednesday, January 13th, 2010
A strabismic’s eyes are not aimed at the same point in space. The difference between the left- and right-eye views is too great for the brain to combine the images into a single picture. A person with non-aligned eyes is confronted with a serious perceptual problem; she must somehow create a single, coherent worldview from conflicting input from the two eyes. To solve this problem, many strabismics suppress the information from one eye and look through the other. Some always use the same eye, while others continually switch between the two eyes, but in either case, they may never see normally through the two eyes together. As a result, most strabismics have reduced or absent stereovision.
— Susan R. Barry, Fixing my Gaze
Spending time with the View-Master as a child was a deeply moving experience. But, after all, it was just a toy, and I was embarrassed enough about my strong emotional responses that I kept them to myself. I recall being so affected by the Flash Gordon reel that knowing there was a finite limit of images nearly brought me to tears. What was it about seeing those 3D impressions that was so profound? Was it because my natural depth perception was already deficient or in decline? I knew I wasn’t very good at hitting or catching a ball. Did I simply lack an athletic reflex, or could it have had more to do with an inability to place objects in space, a known characteristic of monocular vision? How flat has my world been all along?
Yesterday I went to the Vision and Learning Center for a battery of diagnostics that measured and benchmarked the current state of the eye disorder. I’m starting to get more comfortable with phrases like a) Vertical Strabismus (eyeballs out of alignment), b) Oculomotor Pursuits (something to do with how cognitive function enables the eye to move smoothly), and c) Binocular Fusional Disfunction (inability of brain neurons to coordinate dual-eye vision). Actually, it’s wrong to think of it as an eye problem. A “brain glitch” is probably a more accurate way to understand it. Some of the tests seemed ridiculously easy, while others were very difficult and exhausting for me to perform. At the end of my session came a discussion about the details of therapy, timetable, and costs. Once-a-week sessions at the Center for 30 consecutive weeks, plus daily home practice, 30 minutes minimum. For some reason, I wasn’t expecting such a long program, and the sticker price knocked me for a loop. I left with doubts about whether I could take on the economic commitment, even though I knew I had enough discipline to make the approach work. Dana and I had a long discussion. We kept arriving at the same conclusion: I simply had to get this fixed, and somehow we would manage our finances to pay for it out of pocket.
Posted in Angst, Dana, Nonfiction, Personalities, Playtime, Priorities, Vision | No Comments »
Friday, October 30th, 2009
“The chief cause of stress is reality.”
~ Lily Tomlin
It’s hard to accept that nearly three weeks have flown by since Dana and I were traveling to North Carolina, bearing the brunt of a devastating tempest that left 35 homes “unlivable” in Casey County (based on information I learned through the Salvation Army). Since that stormy day I had two wonderful weekends with family at both Broadwing and Blue Bank Farms. Carol and Bob are as youthful as ever and at the pinnacle of insight. Shame on me for taking five years to make a return visit. I was delighted to see how they had displayed my drawing of the old barn, and Pete showed off my pen and ink sketch of the Vulcan stove from their early years above the French Broad. I couldn’t help but contemplate the decline in my sketchbook activity over the past year. During my two days at the Hall, I made an attempt to complete work on the rock flue, but ran into mortar problems again while battling Panyon’s tool thievery. My “Son of Dirk Man” character was a bit of a flop, compared to Jay’s Pappy, Mombo’s Rufus, and Clay’s Donkey Kong. Nevertheless, the day was noteworthy for the revival of our Clan Hayride—a “harvest jamboree,” as Joan called it—and also for her tip about Pandora.com. The Council voted to commission an illustrated map of Clan Valley. Wow, how do I come up with an estimate for that? (Lord, help me finish it quicker than my stone masonry!) Dana called me from town to break the news that our friend Irina had been discovered lifeless, the apparent victim of a heart attack. She was a year younger than me! It took four or five days for me to grasp the finality of losing her awesome talent. Early Sunday morning I decided to tote my Hawken-style 50-caliber down the Valley in search of venison. The ache of a gifted comrade’s passing was on my heart when treetops dipped to let the sun pour its precious gold into our beloved hollow. The goal of hunting for meat dissolved abruptly to a deep reverence for the beauty of our rural legacy and my gratitude for life. When I got up to move farther along the road, something caught the corner of my eye. Four good sized does were now moving purposefully across the hay field. Before I could swing my muzzleloader into play, all were into the wooded drainage. If I’d only lingered a minute more, I probably could have had my pick. The following days were tainted with sorrow, but the request to create Irina’s memorial keepsake helped me channel my emotion, although, sadly, the local printer once again seized the opportunity to complain about our predicable attention to detail. By week’s end, the fabulous distraction of sharing Rick H’s 50th birthday celebration was trumped by the news of Glenda’s bizarre mishap at the Haunted House, which resulted in her breaking four back bones. And this comes on top of her and Jay dealing with the aftermath of burst plumbing and extensive damage to their newly remodeled home. The Graybeard Prospector had the second of two successful networking sessions in Lancaster, and Sunday Silence at Simpson Knob was another welcome break, but the heightened oscillation of desirable and undesirable happenings is becoming too strange. All I want to do is immerse myself in the upcoming wood engraving workshop at Larkspur and try to take myself back to a point of quiet equilibrium. Well then, load the truck and go!
Posted in Angst, Art, Awe, Business, Dana, Death, Family, Firearms, Friends, Gratitude, Hunting, Jay, Joan, Mombo, Music, Nature, Personalities, Pets | No Comments »
Saturday, August 1st, 2009
A new moon . . .
There are times when it seems as though I’ve inadvertently booked crossing on a brig named Pathos. Perhaps it was the only available passage from then to when. If so, I endeavor to accept my berth, on this rolling sea of unknown breadth.
Posted in Angst, Psychology | Comments Closed
Saturday, March 14th, 2009
March exercise—day fourteen— It’s a rule of thumb that it will rain whenever I need to deliver physical artwork, but I managed satisfactorily to get a new set of engravings over to the Art Center and also had my first chat with the incoming executive director. So, if you need it to rain in your town, just arrange a display of my artwork and that should take care of it. Not you, Brendan; I’m quite sure you get enough precipitation out there, although it would be cool to have some of my art make it to the west coast. I get ideas like that, but there’s often not a lot to back them up. Maybe I missed my chance when I was churning out some interesting collages while Ian was in L.A. Many ideas are fresh and I get right to them. Others hang around so long they become annoying, until I realize it’s me at whom I’m perturbed, for allowing them to rot, or, worse than that, I get sick and tired of chattering about them in my head without any action. Ideas like that are usually disavowed, or I just get fed up and finally proceed with one, invariably pushing away another newer, more stimulating notion that just stands there listening to the other one grumble, “Move aside, buster, I’ve got seniority.”
Today’s sight bite— A black and white print in a plastic holder on the wall, somehow seeming tiny and drab —c-l-i-c-k— but that’s my engraving featured next to the gift shop’s doorway.
Tomorrow— Avoid the lure of Sunday languor and prepare for an ambitious workweek…
Posted in Angst, Art, Brendan, Family, Ian, Psychology | No Comments »
Tuesday, March 3rd, 2009
March exercise—day three— (Dear Back, You picked a great time to act up again. Please knock it off and return my mobility. Your friend, John.) The probable result of a 24-hour dose of stress, my lower back has treated me with an unexpected spasm when I bent over to work on a snarl of power cords. Bruce is doing slightly better after they moved a dialysis unit into his ICU chamber, but he still doesn’t recognize his visitors. Mombo sent out a nice prayer request.
Today’s sight bite— The high-resolution digital television picture —c-l-i-c-k— that is a result of solid professional know-how.
Tomorrow— I have absolutely no idea what Wednesday will bring…
Posted in Angst, Bruce, Family, Mombo, Prayer, Technology | No Comments »
Friday, February 20th, 2009
“Death is at all times solemn, but never so much so as at sea. A man dies on shore; his body remains with this friends, but when a man falls overboard at sea and is lost, there is a suddenness in the event, and a difficulty in realizing it, which give to it an air of awful mystery.”
—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
We navigate in a sea of souls…
Grim reality has a way of sweeping aside all the self-absorbing trivialities that clog a journal like this, but rather than ask myself — “What’s the point of it all?” — why not scratch ahead with a continued search for meaning? Maybe for me. Maybe for you. Maybe, maybe not. If I stopped believing it worth a try, this would be my final post.
Not long after the bulk of our community had shaken off the surprise of our shared crisis, most of us were shocked to learn that the life of a respected local leader had been tragically lost. If his name was added to the list of Kentucky’s weather-related deaths, it is unknown to me, but what is clear is that he was found in a vacant house where he’d been working with a generator. The coroner said the circumstances were consistent with carbon monoxide poisoning. It was a mild day. He wasn’t attempting to heat the building. People speculated that the wind blew the door shut while he was operating a sump pump. The precise circumstances remain a puzzle. I didn’t know anyone active in town affairs that didn’t consider him a friend. He covered the leadership bases—from business to social service. He made multiple trips to the Gulf Coast as a volunteer to help with the Katrina response. He was highly intelligent, compassionate, and knew how to do almost anything. The Chamber of Commerce named him “outstanding citizen” over fifteen years ago, but he never slowed down. He took to his grave an unmatched knowledge of the County’s industrial development history and infrastructure. He was the last of a breed of quiet men who had made a truly significant difference. The abrupt vacancy was painfully felt. I spent two hours in line to offer his family a few words that wouldn’t sound trite. I’m not sure that I succeeded.
I didn’t attend the funeral the next day, but paid a visit with my friend Danny to the Abbey of Gethsemani. It was my first time there. It was raining and in many respects would have been considered a dismal day, but others were also making the same pilgrimage, and I found a sense of peace in the setting that defied personal understanding. God is everywhere, but keenly present in some places, and that suggests to me the appropriate use of the word “sacred.” We also stopped at the Saint Rose church in Springfield to meet Father Murray, and I had my first look at the extraordinary Bavarian-style windows. Father Murray is extraordinary, too. At age 87, he looked to me to be in his mid 70s. He told me, “Well, I’ve always gotten a lot of exercise.” He pointed out 70-year-old trees damaged in the ice storm that he helped plant when he was a novice. The seminary was moved east long ago and the associated buildings demolished, but the church remains, a splendid structure full of artistic treasures, including a 13-figure Last Supper and a 12-figure Pentecost, all wood carved in the Italian fashion. Danny wanted to show me the Convent near Loretto and to check on any damage to the outdoor Way of Sorrows. It was evident that huge limbs from the tall grove of surrounding trees had crashed all about, but the only casualty was The Crucifixion. We marveled that each figure of Our Lady had escaped harm, but that “Christ took the hit.”
Several days before, Joan had an opportunity to meet Danny when he joined Joan, Dana, and me at the Hub for coffee after one of Hayley’s high-scoring victories. It was another meaningful, in-depth discussion about heavy subjects. Joan thought she might have intruded and skewed the conversation. Nothing could be further from the truth. Danny told be later he was pleased to meet her and said that my sister was a “strong soul.” He is correct, of course, but I’ve already known that for some time. Danny is quite a soul himself. The word I would use is “magnanimous.” Yesterday he brought over his pole saw and tied himself to my chimney so he could deal with the big branches that were still jack-knifed on our rooftop. One of his earliest memories is watching his father top trees as a lumberjack in the high Sierras. He seems to have the right tool for everything and knows how to use them safely. I can’t say how much I appreciate that in two hours of work together, his generous favor of skill has saved me hundreds of dollars in tree-service fees (or maybe more, from what I’ve heard around town about what people have been charged since the storm).
So, with power now restored for Mombo and Clan Valley and the last of my storm-related headaches resolved, can I say that circumstances have returned to normal? “Not hardly,” as the expression goes. I think I’m battling the same virus that put Bruce back in the hospital yesterday with pneumonia. We’re sleeping on the floor because we made the blunder of giving away our old mattress before FedEx delivered the complete replacement set (and, wouldn’t you know it, they lost part of it). I have no complaints. Things are picking up in the studio, and I have a fun project to work on with KK & K. It’s time to put the Crash Bucket away and begin preparing for the March Exercise.
Posted in Angst, Art, Blogging, Bruce, Caitlan, Community, Crashology, Dana, Death, Exercise, Family, Friends, Gratitude, Home, Joan, Mombo, Nonfiction, Saints, Sport, Studio, Technology | No Comments »
Sunday, February 1st, 2009
“A well man at sea has little sympathy with one who is sea-sick; he is too apt to be conscious of a comparison favorable to his own manhood.”
—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
Seven Deadly Zins
Lee fixed an elaborate, delicious dinner last night, and my plate’s fare was more than I could finish. The Harrisons broke bread with us, too, and then left for a Norton Center performance. They’re still based at a motel, so that tells me Gose Pike remains off the grid. Access to David’s laptop provided an opportunity for us to glance at our growing accumulation of email. I could merely glance at Caitlan’s request that I design the invitation for her year-end wedding. And after that, the big news: Bruce called to let us know our power was back on—at last. We relaxed with Appaloosa for an encore viewing and then gratefully returned to a gradually warming house.
When the ordeal is over, a strange kind of pride or sense of self-congratulation comes alarmingly easy. While others foundered, panicked, or were just plain clueless, if one was in a position to rely on prior judgments and preparations, there can be a satisfaction that is not entirely admirable, because it too easily creates a comforting detachment from those who are still suffering, from those who are still counting the days. Somewhere in the heart is a motivation to move beyond protecting immediate family to a more general community outreach, but the longed-for end to personal crisis brings too strong a desire for the return to ordinary living.
And how smooth it can be to slip into that “new era of normalcy” without also seeing the experience as a call to greater preparedness. True, there seems to be an ongoing series of natural disasters distributed here and there, and this could be seen simply as “our turn” and to say, “All’s well that ends well.” But is it more astute to count blessings without losing a sense of guarded optimism, keeping one eye on the potential for more of the same or worse? Or perhaps that’s the unbroken “crashologist” within—my inner “doom-and-gloom-er” who needs to keep his powder dry and the gas tank on F.
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